Tag Archives: full moon

The miner

                                                      She was waiting
                                                by the open window
                                                  for the sun to set
                                                 smoking a cigarette
                     but it never did
                       that night


         The Velvet Underground spun around
         on the thrift store phonograph
                                  it sounded
                      almost like Aphex Twin

                    a full moon
                     or a straight line
                       insufflated off a mirror
had her hair all tangled
                                            tied back
                 like some sorta
                                    dying ritual


both of her hands &
        both of her eyes
     would alternate
                                       from screen to screen


was she a hunter—or a dopamine machine


who was she waiting for

                  in nothing but her striped stockings
                                             up to her thighs 
       a black choker with a ring on it &
       an indigo princess plug hidden

                                        by the faux tiffany lamp
                                   cross legged on the bed
                 in a small white room
             with a fat buddha tapestry
                                             twelve floors up
                                            with the window open


no encryption


 the screen turns off
  but the cam stays on



Orexin

It’s funny to think
about how hormones
are drugs produced
by your body
that control almost
everything that makes you you

and yet we know that isn’t true at all
—we are something else
entirely—how could we limit ourselves
to this dead iron flesh when we were
full spectrum fountains of light—

and yet that was all just an idea
—like the last full moon passing
before planting when the pull
on our waters are weakest in the dark

observable, testable—like
the last poem
in the works before the poetry
of being works its hands
of vines
into autumn’s lines

you call it
wakefulness
but you know
I’m not too sure
about that
anymore


The words

Erowid used to be this vault of intangible mystery


I don’t know how many reports I read
before I took things into my own hands

I was young, yeah
just 14

I was old—

Huichol kids were no strangers
to the small buttons in the sand

the babes of the Shipibo
drinking little cups of aya
before they were born—
breastfed and initiated—

old still—
compared to the coming of age
of the Bwiti—


I didn’t know what I was but

falsely prohibited—

I knew I had to know

Sitting in Tony’s dumpy backyard
on a busted ass couch
his loose mohawk a veil of fat

You have to keep the lighter on it
You have to hold it in for a long time
Hit it again
It’s not working, this shit is fucking bunk

We had no idea what we were in for
and I was the only one that did it right
I took these huge lungfulls
out of one of those old green acrylic bongs
until I thought I could see music notes
where their voices were
and everything went bright sky blue
I was floating
in front of a burning fireball star
we were the only things
in existence

there were two long black lines
thinning into a point on the horizon
of the blinding surface of the sun
smoldering—
connecting whatever I was
to whatever it was—
I could see white things
racing
up and down it
like a highway

they were symbols,
no—they were
words


How I learned to love the spider (preheat)

I don’t know how many people were there
in this boggy meadow somewhere in Florida
a festival by day
a carnival of oil pastel lights dipped in naptha at night

thubwomping teepee’s with spinning
thingamabobs in the center with handles
that I sat on like a tornado—
burning incense—wearing sunglasses—
(It was the full moon)

I wasn’t on molly
until later
didn’t want my head
rubbed by strangers—
I was being guided
through hyperspace at light speed
in my tent—the mountains of spice would melt
and we’d pass it down five or six times—

Meli would run off and I’d be all
holy shit oh my god
honeymooning
at my first real breakthrough (that wasn’t) but

Who has time for terminology
when you’re lead straight
to the terminal for the first time
by something that
never showed their face again

I was doing flybys of planets that looked artificial

The control panel audible like
six diamonds had come together 
and formed cubes twisting, a knot
in another dimension

A yantra

So what does any of this
have to do
with the spider
you may be wondering
as I exited the tent
indolebreathed and metawinged
into the meadow
lit up by the moon
                       minds
chain reaction
you can invision it wavelike
always twisting to and from
itself collapsing opalescent and alive
a mix of pastel and neon
synesthesia whispers to accept
like the untying of a lace
or your legs made of lightning

It was just the most majestic thing
to be and to be disintegrated
off on the outskirts of a meadow
listening to the musics mesh
on the winds without much difference
eyes shut, eyes closed

Except when… it ran up to my sandals faster
than my choked perception could calculate 

before I even knew what the bone white hand
on the ground that could rove faster
than I could—than anything that I knew could was—

I was flailing goosepimpled
acidwashed insane
down the grass meadow faster
than I ever had in my life—

I thought about the times I’d raced
Raul in fourth grade and won every time—he was so hopeful

I ran—my soul screaming—my body in flight
to the laser dome fishnet cushions
the giant oven on fire—my synthesizer—
the stuffed animals
sewn together that wouldn’t burn
they would liquify
in love—mystified by the terror
of your trickster curiosity


Alright

Hey let’s go to switzerland
Fuck this world
Switzerland
Yeah I’m down for switzerland
Fuck this world
Switzerland 
The Swiss will be sweet
the beats will be fresh
The meats, the besh,
let’s go have a sesh
on a fjord
we’ll never be bored             in
Switzerland


Since Tesla fell in love with a pigeon

                      never ceasing
                                   in dispersion
                                        you curl in quiet
                                             revelation

                                is there anything
                        more marvellous
         than the way you move
  for me

    spoonfulls reach
        their boiling points
                      combustion I
                                      become

                                       when the day is almost
                                 done and the night
                        has almost fallen

                       let’s catch
  the last sunbeams
thru the kitchen window

     it goes
         harpooning
               in sunken spirals
                        across the cymbopogon

                                       swirly white waterfall
                                                            of the sky
                                                    of my mouth